Wicked Pictures
by SilverCascade
Summary: The hardest fights are against yourself and sometimes, darkness is destined to win. A look into Gamzee's mind when he turned sober. Angst and a hint of GamTav. Two-shot.
1. DESCENDANT OF THE SUBJUGGLATORS

Ever since laying eyes on that loathsome video, he'd been feeling _weird_. There was no other way he could think to explain it; his stomach crunched in on itself and the entire world had slowed the fuck down. The walk along a single hallway was endless. Deep breaths going in through the nose and out through the piehole helped a smudge, but the incessant murmurings had begun again, and it scared the shit out of him. He deemed himself to be far enough from the others to slow down.

Colors weren't supposed to talk, he knew. But there they were and that was exactly what they were doing. They weren't even_ talking _anymore_,_ as that'd at least be bearable against the suffocating loneliness. No, they screeched in slow, methodical screams. It was all in his head and he knew that too; he'd just learnt to hide from the constant presence of the blurred rainbow.

Of course, his friends didn't know the only thing that quietened the howls was good ol' fashioned slime pie. Telling them about the voices had never been an option; they'd deem him crazy and he'd be culled before he could say "motherfuckin' miracles." Spacey was one thing but stupid was another, and he wasn't stupid. But on the other hand, the multihued bottles Faygo he drank, which they mocked alongside his sliming habits and quirky religion, just tasted good. The wicked elixir seemed fitting title for such a royal beverage.

As he watched those blasphemous impersonators of his messiahs spit foul words and shake to a hideous tune, the highest of blood boiled in his veins. His think pan slowly came back to life, gears grating and curdled thoughts bubbling in the messy vat he called his mind. They began as murmurs, small worms of thought and suggestion multiplying, growing into huge, coiling snakes of command... command which could sometimes be difficult to disobey. Usually, a bite of slime pie sent them writhing back as the misty halo settled. But the last of the sedative disappeared many hours ago. He knew had to get away and calm himself, and darting through the hallways with the flickering, luminescent light that hurt his eyes and seared his mind had seemed the best option. But his head throbbed and an overload of the senses

**(taste the fuchsia feel the teal hear the yellow smell the jade SEE THE RED)**

weighed him down. Moaning softly, he clutched his head in his hands, fingers slipping through dark, knotted hair as he tried to think straight. The clown also knew he couldn't let the splashes of color win. He simply couldn't.

Gog, he'd kill for a Faygo right now.

"Gamzee," he said to himself, a nervous laugh wrenched from his chapped mouth an accompaniment. "Gamzee motherfuckin' Makara, get a hold of your motherfuckin' self, man."

The shaking mess of a troll began his descent into the tunnels of the meteor, wandering the dark halls with a husktop tucked under his arm, desperately trying to gulp the fresh stale air into his lungs and desperately trying to disregard the mess in his throbbing head.

"This shit, this wicked shit goin' on in your think pan… it don't mean jack. You gotta get your understandin' on, brother. You gotta get away from this shit. You ain't crazy! _That's_motherfuckin' crazy, heh."

The young clown stopped a moment, realizing it to be the truth, and smiled properly. "I ain't insane."

**(you are insane you are insane YOU ARE INSANE)**

The scream, so loud and insistent, frightened him. Make-up smeared lips formed silent words of panic, until he stopped quivering long enough to think through the silence.

Finally, he spoke. "I gotta get back to my friends."

Fighting the ache in his head, the invisible blows being dealt left and right and not aiding his swimming vision in the slightest, he staggered back, trying to return the way he'd come. But his head woozed and his mind thrummed and he took more than one wrong turn to end up not in the control room, but yet another endless corridor.

The blood was the first thing he saw.

Beaten bronze, a tawdry and gaudy aeneous shade. A laugh strangled from his lips. He found he could not breathe, and the air in his lungs squeezed against a cage of bone, and try as he might he couldn't force it free.

"Oh, no, my wicked brother," he wheezed, hands slamming to his mouth in a cross, husktop thudding to the ground. "Tavbro. What happened to you?"

And for a moment, once again, he was Gamzee Makara.

The troll boy reached down, knees bending with a soft click, and eyed the lifeless corpse from which the sticky-sweet blood seeped. The scent was intoxicating; he didn't want to leave the boy's side.

"Tavbro," he said again, and this time a sob followed suit, the most humane noise he'd heard in hours, for the voices stopped momentarily. "Getting my motherfuckin' sober on ain't all they make it out to be."

A hand reached to the chin, and he leaned down, pressing his warm lips against his flush crush's lifeless, cool ones. Chills ran through him, but still he persisted, convinced it not too late to save the boy. Leaning back, a half-grin playing at his slightly browned lips, he awaited the Nitram's revival - he craved to hear the voice again, low and slightly rasping, and the friendly words that always twisted his insides with the pleasure of care. Tavros had never replied to Gamzee's request for a day together of slime pies and making out. _Perhaps he'll come to his senses... when he comes to his senses. _Gamzee chuckled, marveling at how his mind sought delight in even the direst of circumstances.

"Motherfuckin' miracles, man," he laughed, and then stared at the body before him. Five earth minutes passed before he realized Tavros wasn't going to awaken.

A quiet honk rung from the distant corner of his mind.

The colors returned.

They'd been smudges in the back of his head, when the words were darker than the night, and their screams and cries were lullabies, and he wouldn't, couldn't hear them out. Now they were back, fully so, and he'd pay the price.

The young Makara closed his eyes. It was the last great mistake he made.

**(RED RED RED RED**  
**BRIGHT** **SICK**  
**RED RED RED RED)**

"Motherfuckin' no, man," he groaned, fingers tugging hard at his hair and horns and mind relishing the pain he brought himself.

**(HOW DARE YOU CALL YOURSELF A FOLLOWER OF THE DIVINE RELIGION WHEN YOU DON'T EVEN LISTEN TO WHAT WE'RE TRYING TO MOTHERFUCKING TELL YOU?)**

"Leave me the fuck alone… I don't wanna hear your motherfuckin' lies. I gotta get back to my friends…"

**(THEY'RE NOT YOUR FRIENDS; THEY DON'T EVEN LIKE YOU.**  
**they laugh at you, Gamzee, not just to your face – a fact they don't even attempt to conceal – but behind your back.**  
**THE BLIND GIRL MOCKS YOU, AS DOES THE DUAL-SIDED BOY, AND THE CANDY-BLOODED ONE THINKS YOU TOO DENSE TO NOTICE. **  
**ah, but you do notice, and worse still, you care.**  
**YOU CAN HIDE IT FROM THEM WITH A MASK OF FALSE HOPE, BUT NOT FROM YOURSELF.**  
**never from yourself, never from me)**

"Leave me the fuck alone!"

**(TSK-TSK, A BOY SHOULD BE MORE POLITE TO HIS ELDERS. **  
**elders who know things, things of which you wonder**  
**THAT BRONZE BLOODED FOOL**  
**be glad he is gone, for he is beneath you. YOU ARE HIGHER THAN ALL OF THEM)**

"You better stop spewing this garbage about my brother Tavros, motherfucker."

**(HE DOESN'T LOVE YOU AND HE NEVER WOULD. **  
**how could he, when he does not even like you? **  
**HE HATED YOU AS PLATONICALLY AS YOU HATE THOSE FOOLS, AND DEEP DOWN INSIDE AND YOU KNOW IT. **  
**you are higher than those hideous lowbloods)**

"No, it doesn't motherfuckin' matter-"

**(YOU AND ME, BOY,**  
**we're the same)**

"No..." The screeching had gotten louder, groans spilling over the dam of reason and flooding his mind, ears, senses, his fucking brain. It was everywhere and nowhere and he couldn't shut it out. Pale drops slid down his face, hot, scared tears staining his cheeks. "Please…"

**(WE ARE HIGHER THAN ALL THOSE MOTHERFUCKERS**  
**we were born to**  
**SUBJUGGLATE)**

"Make it stop make it stop _make it stop!_" He screamed against it, words stumbling over each other, mixing into one fucked up cry, as incoherent as those that haunted his thoughts. "_Make motherfuckin' it stop!_"

**(AND THAT IS WHAT WE'RE GOING**  
**to motherfucking**  
**DO)**

"P-Please…" His mind had run its course, his voice catching. Lilac dripped from his eyes, streaking along his face as his shoulders shook. "Make it s-stop..."

Gamzee had stopped crying, stopped fighting against them. When his broken, bloody lips curled back over his fangs, and his hands reached for his colourful deuce clubs, he roared alongside the voices.

Thunder like he'd never heard before, louder than he'd ever imagined possible, cracked with every blow to the neck. The dead boy danced a jig, empty eyes looking through the grinning, snarling, roaring clown as the club came down again and again. "It ain't over just yet," he said, voice sharp and clear and quiet. "Not motherfuckin'_ yet_."

He knew what he was doing, consciously aware of his arms straining to break bone and fingers tearing at flesh, but it all felt so distant, as if somebody else was doing it for him.

And then he was himself again, gazing down with horror at the motherfucking mess he'd made. His hands lost their grip on the bronze-spattered handles, as his mind had on his sanity; they thunked to the ground. There was so much_ blood_, and the head of his beloved lay a little way from the body, still connected by a long, fractured, stripe of white.

Fingers stalked across the bone, the pallid rigid snake running from the neck into the open air as he loosened the neck trail from its body. Coated in smooth bronze blood, his fingertips played the bone keys of the silent clarinet, notes of doom and desolation ringing in his ears.

As it stood, he'd rather the red take him now. This state of being, this snapping in and out of his own conscious mind with those voices – oh, the mirthful messiahs couldn't _compare_to the ancient, booming groans of those that came before him – he'd rather be gone.

He murmured sour nothings into paling skin, lips grazing the detached neck, trailing up to the jaw and settling against the smooth cheek chilled by quietus' vice, whilst his fingers smeared blood between their lips. "I am so motherfuckin' sorry."

Again came the red, and sorrow fled his mind.

**(paint it fuschia dye it violet stain it purple blur it indigo streak it cerulean pummel it teal scathe it jade beat it olive stretch it yellow smear it bronze pull it burgundy SEE IT RED)**

Anger reigned, white hot and burning through his brain. Hate may be a dagger of fire, but anger, _anger_ is a spike of bitterness in an otherwise calm sea. Deadlier than the points of icicles, and so damn cold it could freeze you in an instant, stop the fluttering beats of your heart and numb your mind until your demons took control for good.

Picking up the bloody club from the floor and tucking the husktop under his arm, he stood. Huge yellow eyes, pupils shrunken to a dot, did not leave the vacant gaze of his boy.

He could keep those fine lips now

**(TAKE HIM TO THE TUNNEL THE TUNNEL THE TUNNEL OF LOVE)**

and get the body later, he knew, 'cause there'd be plenty of motherfucking time when those disturbances – those mirthless maniacs, the filthy lowbloods – were taken care of. The young troll picked up the bull-boy by the horns, chuckling at his own twisted train of thought, and sauntered away.

But now… but motherfucking_ now_… the subjugglator was to bring the maniacal harshwhimsies, the capricious carousels of fun and the darkest of bloodcirques to the _motherfuckers_that had invaded his hive of horror.


	2. crushed bones and sweet murdermirth

The jury was set, the judge ready, the hammer poised to smash down upon a motherfuckin' decision. Gamzee glanced down at the table before him, where glassy eyes stared at the ceiling, the lolling, dripping heads of his friends forever fixed in eerie grins.

The colors of their blood were stunning, each drop adding to the startlingly bright mural on the floor. Sliding through his fingers, dripping from the gaps in his once-ashy hands, now coated in layers of slippery rainbows. His own lips curved upwards, spots of purple oozing from split cracks, tongue lapping up the sour taste. The rather deep scratches had started to congeal, and he wondered idly if they would scar. As he brought his colorful fingers to his mouth, lips curling over the fingertips, he thought about how happy he was that he'd finally made those motherfuckers mirthful.

A lazy hand dipped back into the palette of his face, raking open the barely-set welts and making purple trickle down his face. All the more to get his motherfuckin' art on, alright… his messages were already scrawled across the walls in the array of colors given to him, but there was just one addition to be made and… ah.

**:o)**

It was complete. He licked the blood off his fingers, smearing more from the wounds across his nose and contemplating the easy

**(easy as slime pie)**

pickings of late.

Indigo had barely even squirmed, though getting the motherfucker to kneel had been the hardest part; he'd died smiling, of course, smiling because he'd meant to all along… he'd seen what he'd missed, the beauty of the miracle-filled world the messiahs would bring. Olive, on the other hand, had writhed and shrieked with each crunching smash of clubs. As the blows grew in number, force, volume, her cries quietened to moans, eventually giving way to soft, blubbering sobs. Never had the clown heard songs so _sweet_ to his ears. He made her smile just like the others he found, by curling their lips upwards and holding them there until the bodies stiffened.

A pity it had taken death to make them see the light.

Violet and Fuschia, they were out like lamps when the wandering one found their forms. Hauling them through the vents had been tricky business as their combined paint-blood left streaks of the most delicious grape, but that was what friends were for! After all, who could turn down a such a reunion? Smirking friends forever; welcome to the carnival of grins, welcome one and all! You lack a reason to smile? No matter, Mister Makara, the master of ceremonies, will fix your motherfucking face up good as new.

But of course, no reunion was wholly complete without _all_ friends.

Leaving out notes and leading two to their doom

**(TEAL AND CERULEAN, THEY'LL PAY SOON)**

was easy enough. Manipulation was such a harsh motherfuckin' word; after all, he was just helping them get their understandin' on, like they never did with him or the slime pies. And _oh Gog_ did it feel good to be free from the grip of that think pan-rotting poison. Red had warned him a few times that the shit was no good, but he hadn't listened… the troll wished he could thank his best brother right now, but alas, he insisted upon playing games. Grabbing Yellow and running away: why it was just like the good old days of FLARPing

**(i'd never even been motherfuckin' _asked_ to join)**

all over again! Goodness fuckin' gracious, how time did fly when you were being drawn towards the miracles! And even more so when you went around illuminating your buddies. The Jade blood hadn't seen it so, for a kick in the bulge was all the thanks he'd gotten for his efforts… but no matter. There was no point in rustin' your think pan about shit you knew you'd later change. She'd see the pulsing, multi-colored light of the world soon enough, and then he'd get the thanks he deserved. It was just a waiting game, and he had all the time in the world.

Red, however, did not share the same luxury.

Whipping out his husktop and folding himself into the corner of the room, he bent himself in half and began to type. If they were playing it like a game, it was only fair to give his best motherfuckin' friend a warning or two.

And anyway, when did terrorizing a brother become so much _fun_? He was only being himself, his _true motherfuckin' self_ for once, and the Red one seemed to show only fear. No matter, none at all, for when he saw the light

**(8eat it, asshole)**

He froze. What the fuck was that?

Ever since_ it_ took him in, swallowed him with a slurp, the voices had stopped. There was but one left, straining but quiet, one of moral protest; but it had no control, not an ounce, for he was in charge now and would carry out the messiahs' work. But that… that melodic disturbance, the lilting lull of familiarity so different to the creaks of his ancestor… from where had it come?

**(An Idiot Of The Highest Order)**

"No." The word was not a word, but a choking his throat expelled.

**(wwe don't care about you)**

"_No!_" Not a strangulation, but roar tearing his lips.

**(WHY SHOULD W3?)**

"You promised." No longer a shriek, but instead the salty sting of betrayal, the dizzying realization of loss. "You promised, you promised me, _you fuckin' promised_!" A ringing of a hope, the thundering reign of knowing it was broken.

**(FUCKING DUMBASS)**

**(you're a 2tupiid 2hiithead)**

"_You can't be doing this!_" Mimicking a scream, a mockery of calamity.

**(a worthless e%cuse of a highb100d)**

"You can't…"

**(what a glubbing dork)**

**(a m0r0n)**

"You're both dead. You're motherfuckin' gone!"

**(you're furry silly)**

"_I killed you motherfuckers!_" Hatred. So much odium, so much hatred.

**(i dONT lOVE yOU, i nEVER hAVE)**

"No… motherfuckin' no, not you too!" Searing, white hot red hot blue burning hot _pain_, flared in his chest. He couldn't breathe; screaming, screaming was all he could do to drown out the cacophony in his thinkpan,

**(WHY THE MARTYR WHY MY BOY OH WHY)**

screaming shut out the cruel words and crushing, squeezing loneliness… screaming turned it into burning, brimming rage.

Silence.

He stood.

He started to laugh.

**(kill them all)**

Shrill, hyena-like peals erupted, face cracking into a gnarled smile at hearing the voice of his new and_ bestest_ motherfuckin' friend who'd arrived to join the party. Collapsing to the floor and clutching his sides and screaming again with dirty mirth, he rocked back and forth until his spine began to ache. Still giggling, he shakily sat up, pulled the husktop over and finished messaging the Red. They'd meet soon enough, he knew, and then… then he would make good on his promise. A Makara never goes back on a promise, a fact all his brothers and sisters knew, and this was no exception. He was going to motherfuckin' kill _all_ those motherfuckers, no motherfuckin' mercy, just like was expected of him. Hell, he'd even get some damn fun doing it.

There was no going back now; his mind was made up.

Heaving himself up, bones weighing a ton, he threw the husktop to one side and left the guarding of the bloodparty to his lil' green-suited buddy. Battle-ready was the clown, the motherfuckin' messiahs watching over him as he swung the hammer around, gripping it tightly, getting a feel for its weight and feeling how that weight would shift when slamming into the still-walking desecrations. Not that they'd be walking for long, of course.

Trailing the flat side of the hammer along the ground, back fixed in a slouch and smile twisted into his face, he ambled along the hallways. He reached into his pocket with his free hand, extracting the sole item: a broken, wheezing horn which just about worked, one he had earlier slipped onto his person from the pile.

Long, slender fingers wrapped in a rainbow-tinted splash curled around the grey plastic. Gone were the days when his high fuckin' self tripped over his own damn feet and flew into the pile of horns, startling the shit out of himself; the horn was his weapon now, and he knew the chills it gave the walking colors. Pointing the trumpet of his gods to the world, the subjugglator grinned and squeezed down oh-so-slowly. Low, wavering notes rung out, drifting through the false blackness, matched only by the drawl in his mind.

honk.

**HONK.**

**honk.**

HONK.

His name was Gamzee Makara and the world was his for the taking.


End file.
